


The Saccharine Taste of Autophagia

by sadrobotinahat, We_Have_Become_Anathema



Series: Battle Not with Monsters, Lest Ye Become a Monster [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Disturbing Themes, Gore, M/M, Um... other mind f'ing troupes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobotinahat/pseuds/sadrobotinahat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_Have_Become_Anathema/pseuds/We_Have_Become_Anathema
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black, thick, fungal bile rose in his throat, tasting like fear sweat, making him cough and shake. He wanted nothing more than to back away, to run from the room he now recognized as an operating theatre.  But he wasn't even standing up.  There was Hobbs, ever present, and Levine and Stammetz and Corrigan and Wells and Herje and Budish and Budge and so many more stretching into the shadowed mezzanine.  He looked back to the stag, eyes wild.  "Who's operating?" was all that came out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saccharine Taste of Autophagia

**Author's Note:**

> This loosely follows after "And We in Forests Malcontent", because only having one dream sequence about cannibalism wasn't enough.

Cold, harsh light filtered down from the banks of lights high above, casting the slightest of green hues over the hall. Warmth from fur and feathers at Will's back and sides. The stag was curled around Will once again, its great mass comforting against the chill in the air, the frigid surface of the metal table underneath them. It raised its head, glancing around at the space they were in, an antiquated surgical lecture hall, with a sleeping Will Graham and the stag on the operating table. Around them, peppered throughout the stadium seating in the theatre, were the animated corpses of each of the killers that Will had caught over his seasoned career as a special investigator.

Hobbs was front and center, bathed in the sole light shining on the seats, the rest plunged into relative darkness in comparison. Rigid and akimbo, the jeering smile of a partially exposed skull, the thing of nightmares.

High in the rafters the body of the Angel Maker hung, an atheistic Christophany mocking the marvels of man: life and health and moralistic wealth.

The stag licked at Will's face, determined to be the first thing Will would see, long before the horrors of the theatre around them.

Will was cocooned in darkness, in suspended nothing and suppressed sounds, everything covered in layers of blankets and dust and endless water until awareness was a distant memory.  If emotion weren't so far away, he would have been happy.

Floating, until gravity began to pull him into awareness, heaviness, solidity.  A wetness on his cheek, and it was moving, drawing swaths of warmth up to his temple and back again.  He hummed, tilting his head back against the soft mass supporting him.  Little pricks of pain lit up his skin as a well-chosen counterpoint to the gentleness.  After another soft moan of his approval, he opened his eyes to see the ink black stag's eye watching him.  Though an impulse nagged at him, that some information had been omitted, he smiled wide and honest.  "Hello," he muttered fondly, combing his fingers through the fur.  Breathing in, the stag's organic scent was soothing, though the air under it... stale.  He focused on the stag, as if he knew he was supposed to, clutching at the scruff on the back of the thing's neck.

A sound almost like a whimper came from the stag, and it hugged Will with its strong neck. In the unearthly silence of the theatre, the only sound was the beating of its heart, strong and clear, and their breathing synced in unison. The smell of the motionless air would have been oppressive if the stag didn't have its own earthy musk, and it twitched its shoulders to release more of it into the air. In fact, it seemed as if the stag was attempting to be the world to Will, saving him form every horror it could.

However when it heard the first whispers of a corpse stirring, coming to life, it pulled back to lick at Will's face, nudging him to see where they were. They were the main event, either in their conjugal bliss or their shared terror, ripped open and exposed like so many donated cadavers. There was an urgency to the stag's motions, a sense that it could and would protect Will, but it needed him awake and aware so it would worry less, so it could trust him to run when it said "Go".

 Will tilted his head in concern, a birdlike gesture that might have looked more at home on his companion than himself, and tried to calm the frantic behavior.  For a moment, it seemed to work.  Though the stag was only able to use its neck and shoulders, the embrace was still clear - and more than welcome.  Will molded himself into the smaller space, and his lips pressed, lingering, on the fur beneath them.  It didn't take long for the rhythms of their bodies to match each other.  Each time Will's chest expanded with breath, the stag's did as well, and it pressed them even closer.  Then a little noise, a rustling, broke the moment and the calm.  He was being frantically pushed with the creature's tongue and nose, a strange and desperate communication.  "Shhh, wh-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement, shifting, rolled up sleeves on a green striped shirt over bloodied arms and rotted flesh and... "No," he whispered, begging.  "No, no, not... fifteen more minutes..."  His words were slurred by the dreamscape, muddled in his mouth.  But the creaking of chairs and slide of cloth were stronger now, and he knew he had to turn and look.

Black, thick, fungal bile rose in his throat, tasting like fear sweat, making him cough and shake. He wanted nothing more than to back away, to run from the room he now recognized as an operating theatre.  But he wasn't even standing up.  There was Hobbs, ever present, and Levine and Stammetz and Corrigan and Wells and Herje and Budish and Budge and so many more stretching into the shadowed mezzanine.  He looked back to the stag, eyes wild.  "Who's operating?" was all that came out.

 The stag's head swung between Will and the killers, fear in its eyes not for itself but for Will. With an angry huff it got to its hooves and positioned itself over him, lowering its horns slightly so that it could get a good charge off on any of the killers should they come close enough. Muscles twitched in its hind flank, a momentary quiver that spoke of confined spaces and readiness.

With a strange head toss, it moved, careful of Will, and bit down on the back of his shirt, trying to get him to stand. It knocked his shoulder and then looked at its own back, feathers slowly disappearing inside the think, insular fur. An impassioned bleat at Will, those dark eyes flashing, praying for him to understand.

 A thrill ran through him as the stag once again announced itself to the world -or at least, what felt like the whole world, in this stifling space- as his protector.  Those horns could be dripping with dark, thick blood, the fur matted with viscera, and it would be for _him_.  The only word for it was... meaningful.

Teeth scraped at the back of his neck.  They were sharper than they should be considering the species.  It made him shiver as he stumbled to his feet, even though he knew the reason for the almost-bite.  He stared, touched by the gesture yet strangely unsurprised, as the feathers melted into skin and fur.

Without hesitating, he lifted himself onto the beast's back.  The ridges of the spine slid under his groin with an oddly pleasant sensation as he moved into a position that he could maintain.  Hobbs met his eyes, skin dangling in strips from his grinning jaw.  Will tightened his hands in thick, welcoming fur and _pulled_.

Another bleat, this time long and powerful, the stag challenged all of the killers to come and attack it, now that it had Will safely on its back. Pawing at the smooth metal, it sussed out how much traction it could get and then readied itself. All sound died in that moment of preparation, as the stag drew in a deep breath, dropped down, and leapt.

It soared with the power of its hind legs, flanks bunching as the muscles worked, and it landed on an empty chair in the lowest ranks. With one last soft nip at Will's leg, the stag began its crazed ascent, hooves navigating terrain made for human hands and feet, barreling up row after row of chairs. When it crested the last of the chairs it found there was a high wall made of the same dungeon stone that hedged Hannibal in back in his cell, and the stag slammed its horns against the masonry angrily, superficial chips flying from the stone.

Trotting around the great lip of the theatre to keep the killers at a distance, it looked back at Will for some direction as to what they should do. It would protect Will to its dying breath, but it was obvious that it preferred not having Will anywhere near the killers.

Will's stomach was lurching, apparently sloshing loose inside his abdomen by the time they halted at the room's stone border.  He clung with bone-pale knuckles to the stag's fur, head finally rising as they slowed to follow the movement of the other occupants. Hobbs was in an expected lead, staggering forward on rotting feet.  Levine, her body the most intact, blushed cheeks and wet eyes, reached out with the knife in her hand.  Budish's wings remained in full angelic extension as he moved between seats.

The stag caught his gaze, narrowed his focus to their silent communication.  He would have to make the decision.  He knew, instinctively, that they could survive the onslaught.  If they had nothing else but his knowledge of these killers, and the stag's fervent devotion, they would be the last two alive.  But at what cost?  Will shook his head, and pointed at the table.

"I'm supposed to be there."

It was only too obvious in the way the stag tensed that it did not want to return Will to such an utterly defenseless position, the center of a circle room with an operating table like a sacrificial alter. The stag watched him for a long moment, before leaning forward and sharing his breath, nose an inch away from Will's. Drawing its strength again, it knocked Will's head as a warning and then started back down the rows of chairs, leaping far over the heads and reaching arms of the killers whenever they got too close.

Power and grace and competency all rolled into one to make the stag a sinuous blur of dark energy.

The stag was fleet and sure footed, and none of these ambling corpses had a hope of catching it as it ran.

One last leap landed them onto the ground of the theatre, the table just to their right. It looked back at Will, wondering what he had in mind now that they were back in the lion’s den.

Will waited, part of him wishing the stag would just disobey, destroy the room and his past and make a doorway if none existed.  His eyes closed as warm air settled over his mouth, little sighs and huffs as they both regained their breath.  He focused on the rhythm of its exhalations.  It was calming, though nothing would slow the beating of his heart now, and he didn't expect it at all when the sharp rap of bone jolted his forehead to the side.  Then they were flying through the shadowed room, all the stag's efforts regretfully undone.  Maybe it was a waste, to have the strength and ferocity of such a creature under the direction of someone like him.  He stroked down the muzzle, curling his hand to rest behind an ear - grateful nonetheless.

From their position, Will clambered easily back onto the table and lay down.  He had to be open, didn't he?  That was his purpose.  Open, receiving, bloody.  Their situation wasn't enviable, but Will couldn't help but look back at the stag with trust, with expectation, and just the tiniest shred of resentment.

"I'm here."

The stag backed away as Will looked at it, shaking its head, horns making the smallest noise as they cut through the air. Feathers came up from all over its fur; defensive as it looked at Will with pain in its eyes. Then it keened, dropping to its front knees in pain, the fires burning bright under its pelt.

The raised lip of the table made it difficult, but seeing the stag's distress left Will aching to reach out and soothe his companion.  He shook his head, though, as his arm extended - making sure that this wasn't to be taken as a request to wait.  Just comfort.

 _It's not death_ , he wanted to say.  _I've seen death.  You're not dying.  This isn't pain.  Reversion to one's natural state is the elimination of pain._

_I'm sorry._

The fire singed the tips of his fingers, and he yanked them back with a gasp.  They were blackened, bubbling with a sickening liquidity as the smell of burning fur reached his nostrils.  The air was thick with it.  He swallowed, soot coating the insides of his throat. If it hadn't felt so necessary, he would have begged for the process to stop.  He would have gotten off of the table and licked the flames from those razored shoulders.

_I'm so sorry._

Having seen the transformation should have readied Will for what was about to happen, but when the fires burned, licking through flesh, fur, and feather, the acrid smell of burning flesh clogged the stale air, choking. The stag was valiant in its silence, not wanting to hurt Will to have to hear its dying calls for salvation, instead it kept perfectly silent as the crackle of flame serenaded the both of them. Then a hand emerged from the inferno, and Hannibal looked at Will, the stag’s funereal eyes staring from Hannibal's gaunt face.

Then there was the nakedness of skin, the control of clothing, and a face that remained inhuman even in its familiarity.  Will's smile was faint, unsure, but accepting.

_Maybe not so sorry._

Reaching out, Hannibal cupped the side of Will's face, skin blistering at the contact. Mounting the table, he straddled Will, a scalpel falling from the wrist of his shirt, perfectly held in his almost delicate fingers. Stroking Will's face, he brought the tip of the blade to the hollow of one of Will's shoulders and began the incision, the practiced motions of an autopsy coming with an ease. Moving his hand, he covered Will's eyes, not wanting him to have to see this.

Even with the glint of the scalpel, he managed to stay still, watching Hannibal and leaning gently into his palm, until it began.  Will's back arched, a guttural whine of pain escaping him at the first incision.  One hand clutched the edge of the table, the other automatically reaching up to grip Hannibal's thigh next to his hip.  His breath came sharp and irregular, only evening out a little when everything went dark.

Hannibal's expression was inhuman, no landmarks with which to judge if the display of teeth was a grin or a grimace, no precedent for what that particular tilt of eyebrows meant. But those eyes, oh those ethereal eyes, pitch black pools of deepest agony, wept for the pain, tears of molten flame and blood dripping onto Will like candle wax. And in weeping there was nothing weak, just the distress of a monster's soul, for they have no heart.

The second incision of the Y was swift, a slight sawing motion carefully separating the flesh, skin pulling back like a bowstring, overly taut.

With the lightest stroking, his hand continued to keep Will's world calm and ordered in the dark and the pain, his finger cauterizing the flesh about Will's eyes, and surely the eyes would never see the same with the slow poison seeping into his from the miasma that was the air about them.

Pain, blossoming, blooming as surely as the blood flower spreading across Will's chest as Hannibal cut open the ribcage, each set of ribs springing open as their connection was severed, leaving his opened chest looking like the gaping maw of some nightmarish fiend, ribs like long fangs.

Will opened his mouth, ready to scream Hannibal's name in agony or caress the syllables in moaning gratitude, he didn't know which... but the warping heat of the air stole all moisture from his tongue, paralyzed his words.  The fire was telling him not to name this.  Not to taint it with something so pedestrian as identity.  Each drop of burrowing heat left him hissing, whimpering, tiny sounds that leaked out through gritted teeth.  His fingers dug into the meat of Hannibal's thigh, before sliding higher and holding on.  His thumb curled into the crease below the pelvic bone and bled with no prompting, from under the nail.  He'd allow this - hell, welcome it, beg for it - and he'd make sure to be anything but passive.

The flesh around his eyes rippled, eyes scarring in their sockets at the touch of Hannibal's finger.  Somehow he didn't mind.  He'd be able to see Hannibal, even if blinded.  Hannibal would be sharper and clearer and brighter in the flames.  And the knife continued, launching sparks behind his eyes.

He writhed.  Every so often, his hips would jerk in an attempt at escape or connection.  His tension wound tighter beneath his stomach with every snapping bone, deepening his token protestations.  Cells were splitting in two under the sharpness of a beautiful, graphite-dusted blade.  It left grey dust and particles of wood on his opened skin, like decorative lining among the pulpy wet surface.  His ribs finally bent out, and he groaned as the action exposed his heart and guts to the air like a cleansing.  Heat dried and cracked the top layer of flesh and revealed the darker cores until his flesh was near-purple with blood.

Through it all, there was something gentle about the hand over Will's eyes, about the gesture of not letting the man see the horror of being desecrated alive. And then the hand was removed so that the scalpel could push inside, find the veins and arteries and pull out the still beating heart, the air suddenly resounding with its slowing pace. Scalding blood the colour of jasper spurting forth, soaking the crotch and legs of Hannibal's pants, coating Will's barred torso in a thin sea of life slowly passing away.

The invading hand left him with wide eyed and gaping, twisting and panting-- and horrifically entranced. Hannibal, bathed in golden light, perched above him.  Will squeezed his hip.  Hesitation rested with the living.

**_Eat._ **

There were no words, but the intent was clear as Hannibal took that burning heart and held it before Will's mouth, leaning in close to place a soft brush of lips against Will's neck, the blood staining into his shirt and waistcoat.

There was no hesitation.  Will craned his neck enough to reach for it and ripped a savage chunk off of the organ.  Blood dripped down his chin like water.  He kept his eyes on Hannibal the whole time, except when they fluttered closed as he savored the taste for a moment.  He didn't miss having it in his chest.

 _More._ He nuzzled towards Hannibal's face, groaning blatantly, smearing blood from his own cheeks.

**_I can do that for you.  Ask and ye shall receive._ **

Hannibal practically cooed over Will, his hand sliding to the already blistered cheek, thumb stroking deeper and deeper grooves into the skin.

**_Beautiful. So very beautiful._ **

With a growl, he bit off a chunk of Will's heart and chewed it, open lipped so that the blood dripped into Will's waiting mouth. When he had swallowed half of it, he leaned down and pressed his lips against Will's, coaxing his mouth open and pushing the meat into his mouth. He stayed there, kissing Will, an inferno and a blast furnace all at once, stealing Will's breath and parching his thirst with his own blood. Tongue darting forward, he stroked Will's tongue, wrapping around it to suck for a moment before he was pulling away, sitting up, groin grinding against Will's in a slow drag, the wet blood making the motion feel too slick.

Another chunk torn off, the process repeated, Hannibal feeding Will in slow, nearly tender actions if not for the burning that chapped Will's lips and the hand that had long since charred the side of Will's face.

**_You don't need a heart to love me, do you?_ **

He'd never needed a heart to love Will, it was cerebral and instinctual and visceral, but it wasn't emotional. What emotions the monster over Will felt were so foreign to a man's, that they shrieked like the mandrake and twisted like Oroborus. If this monster ever had a heart, it had been given to Will the moment he'd slipped the linoleum knife into the skin and found he could not end his life. Hannibal, the great beast, had gotten too close to Will, seen something of himself in those tormented eyes, and he'd found he could not kill this man.

**_Never die, Will, not before I kill you and end this hold you have on me._ **

Hannibal pressed fevered kisses to Will's mouth, placing the heart on the operating table, forgotten as he delved his hand into the cavity left behind and warmed himself inside the depths of his prey, his peer. Hips bucked against Will again, and Hannibal was stroking at the wall of Will's lungs, caressing him from the inside out.

Hannibal's hand no longer hurt as it pressed into his cheek, the skin too raw to feel each new touch where it remained, charred bone peeking though in patches along his jaw.  He keened, blood pulsing to his fingertips and groin and flooding useless and hot into the basin of his chest.  But it was alright, he had enough, because Hannibal was feeding it back to him.

His entire being surged into the kiss, gratefully tasting his own shredded flesh around the scalding, twisting length of Hannibal's tongue.  Their last kiss returned to his mind, the rough sadness of it completely overwhelmed by this new violence, this new possessive care.  It was so tempting to bite down, wound Hannibal in kind and mingle their blood behind his teeth.  But that wasn't his place.  Not yet.  The grind of their bodies, piercing down his spine, insinuating into his core, was enough for now.  He rolled his hips to match Hannibal's pace, increase it.

No, he didn't need his heart for this.  Even opened up to this room, even in the act of giving up the centerpiece of his chest and mangling it beyond repair, this love was purely _his_.  There was no doubt of who felt it.  No other presence in his mind could touch it.  A heart felt trivial, compared to this - so did this second gutting.

His hand curled into Hannibal's razor wire hair, soft to the touch as it sliced through his skin.  He tugged, holding the fire close, his lungs expanding against a foreign palm. With a sudden moment of inspiration, he moved a hand inside himself, fingers groping blindly until he felt the scalding heat from Hannibal’s hand. Pulling gently, he removed Hannibal’s hand from his lung and twined their fingers together, gripping tight and insistent, glad for the grounding pain of their embrace.

 _Kill me?_ He groaned, ragged _. You can't.  Not really.  Not unscathed.  I don't believe it._

Hannibal's eyes narrowed at Will's challenge of his statement, but he did not refute it, both of them knowing he had tried once and failed. He would not try a second time.

A noise from around them caught his attention and he raised, hands still holding tight, possessive over Will's ravaged body as he locked eyes with the killers who had made their way into the main floor of the theatre. Growling, he leaned back down and pressed one last kiss to Will's lips.

**_Not going to share, Will._ **

Picking up the heart and putting it into Will's hand so the man could feed himself if he so chose, Hannibal arose, shoulders leading and head hung forward, motions unnatural and unsettling. When he was upright, his head snapped up and he grinned a terrible grin at them. Just as in his stag form, when he moved it was pure, sinuous grace; however now he had no need to run, no need to rush. Alighting from the table, he stalked over to Garrett Jacob Hobbs and touched him, one finger in the middle of his undead forehead, flame showing as a sudden light from under the man's skin. The long disused blood in his veins turning to magma at Hannibal's touch, burning the man from the inside out and Hobbs crumpled like a doll, lead weighted and motionless.

Moving too fast to be seen, Hannibal appeared behind Budge, hand slipping over his eyes and pulling the musician against his chest in a mockery of the gentleness he had just been showing Will. Light poured from Budge's mouth, the smell of brimstone and hellfire coming heady and strong with the man's dying shouts; and then roiling, putrid clouds of smog belched from him, insides liquefied and useless, skin slipping to the ground.

Killer after killer, each fell to Hannibal, his breath becoming more ragged with each kill, until he stood in the middle of the destruction, chest heaving and those pitch black eyes seemed to be drawing the entire world into them. Turning to look at Will, he cocked his head to the side and smiled somberly.

**_I should have been the only one you dreamt of, the only one._ **

Because after all, Hannibal had always been Will's nightmare.

Will licked over his lips, soothing the quick burn of that last kiss.  Rendered immobile by the gaping vulnerability of his organs, all he could do was turn his head to watch, remnants of his own heart fluttering bloodless between his fingers.  He wouldn't eat it alone.  And from the fierce, predatory tension in Hannibal's back, he wouldn't have to.

Hannibal's movements set ripples erupting through the air, tangible waves of heat washing over him as if beaten by invisible, enormous wings.  The thought made Budish's attempts seem laughable.  And he wanted to laugh, glee and relief bubbling in his ruined chest, as one by one his tormentors were anointed in flame.  Each killer's cancerous presence in his brain rotted, peeled off, and slid shuddering and necrotic out of his ears and nostrils until he was clean and bright inside.

_Why did I ever pretend you weren't everything?_

As Hannibal slowed, turned to the last few ghosts with bared teeth, Will began pushing at his ribs.  Shards were cracking off but he managed to close himself back up and precariously stick his skin into place.  Heart still dangling from his hand, he stood.  As he walked towards Hannibal, his feet were pierced by bone and scalded by still boiling piles of murdered, murderous flesh.  Reaching the deified man at the center of the carnage, he shoved the last morsel of his heart into his mouth and lunged into a kiss.

_You are.  You are now._

The silence of the predawn darkness was pierced by the shrill voice of the telephone, ringing once, twice, three times, before falling silent. Moments later, it started up again, finally piercing through the last remnants of Will's dream, as he grabbed for it.

"Will? I'm not going to apologize for waking you because I'm about to order you to haul your ass out of bed and get to the airport. We've got a murder down in Virginia they're sticking us on, and I need you on the plane _yesterday_. I'm gonna be holding people away from the scene as well as I can for you, but I can't promise anything. At least it's still fresh." There was a beat of silence, as if the man on the other end of the phone was trying to pull himself together, "You're not going to like this one, Will, but I need you down here. This guy... he's a copycat for Dolarhyde..."


End file.
